


We meet at the inbetweens

by Etalice



Series: Drarryland 2019 [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: An overabundance of nature metaphors, Drarryland: A Drarry Game/Fest, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 15:25:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18524290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etalice/pseuds/Etalice
Summary: They’ve been moving together for longer than they’ve known, Harry and Draco, because if Draco’s the moon then Harry’s the tide, forever attracting each other in endless motion (push. pull. push. pull. push. pull.). They belong together, Harry and Draco, because if Harry’s the sun, then Draco is every plant at once, germinating and growing leaves and blooming in the warmth of his light.In which Draco and Harry meet as dusk and dawn and inevitably attract.





	We meet at the inbetweens

**Author's Note:**

> _One works day shift, the other works nights. They have breakfast (or dinner) in the morning. Pick either: ~~1) Established Relationship: someone does something different/orders something different, and the other notices -OR-~~ 2) Not Established Relationship: they always cross paths and end up eating together. Minimum: 301 words - Maximum: 613 words._
> 
> [Ruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfwish) remains the loveliest beta I have ever worked with and I am forever grateful

They always meet in the hours between day and night, Draco and him.

He’s always beautiful, Draco thinks, forever drenched in sunlight and warmth. The sight of him turns the breath in Draco’s lungs to apple blossom petals - soft and fragrant and cool. If the man were a season, he’d be May, Draco decides one morning as the smell of coffee mixes with the soft expanses of warm sunrise painted upon the wall. He’s alive and strong, blooming and forever giving, giving, giving. Draco drinks him in, intoxicated by the scent of the man’s skin and the sight of the freckles strewn on the soft darkness of his cheeks.

They always have coffee in the silence of the empty ministry cafeteria in those early hours when Draco ends his shift and Harry starts his, sleep weighing like a crown on both their heads. The proximity of their fingers caressing the smoothness of warm china turns the wooden floors and the stone walls into an orchard, Draco thinks. Below their feet: bright dandelions and soft cardamines, blooming poppies with sticky-thin petals and rich blue cornflowers. Above their heads: lush leaves, late flowers and early fruit. The whole of spring is contained in those precious minutes, and Draco wishes he could bottle them and keep them forever next to his heart.

It’s always over too soon. Colleagues walk in, and Draco slips out. Silent, silent, unnoticed. He treads the grey streets, quiet and tired, knowing only that he’ll see the man when the sun next kisses the horizon, and that it will be spring once more then, warm and beautiful and bright. It is enough, he tells himself.

(It never is).

***

They always meet in the hours between night and day, Harry and him.

He’s so delicate, Harry thinks as he commits every single detail to memory: the milk white skin, and the soft cornsilk hair, and the quicksilver eyes. Everything in Harry’s life is loud, **loud** , **LOUD** \- each minute of every single day forever filled with shouts and questions and motion and Draco just makes everything—

Silent.

His skin is coated in the soft calmness of night, Harry thinks. His movements are precise, graceful, deliberate, and Harry loses himself in them. He needs the man like he needs air or water, Harry does, because the world turns to watercolours when they’re together, all the shades softly melting into each other until only pure beauty remains.

They always have tea in the silence of the empty ministry cafeteria in those late hours when Harry ends his shift and Draco starts his, tiredness pulling at the corners of their eyes. Peppermint and rosehip swirl their earthy scents through the air as Harry’s lungs fill with moonlight and a kind of darkness that is softer than velvet. On the table, Draco’s fingertips ghost along the grain of the wood. He can’t live without the man, Harry realises. He’s pouring his entire life in those instants between dawn and dusk, his entire world revolves around soft smiles, and calm words, and him.

Always him.

***

They’ve been moving together for longer than they’ve known, Harry and Draco, because if Draco’s the moon then Harry’s the tide, forever attracting each other in endless motion. They belong together, Harry and Draco, because if Harry’s the sun, then Draco is every plant at once, germinating and growing leaves and blooming in the warmth of his light.

And so, Harry covers Draco’s hand with his own.

And so, Draco smiles.

It was inescapable.


End file.
